as the thighs above the knees burn through tears in the jeans. as the
belly
burns. as we think of something nice.
as jet trails droop like wet knives in a daylight shooting
.
we don't make wishes on them.
we just wish that the a/c will kick in when we
step through the door.

summer like chapters of mangled honey.
fingers like attitude problems.          she lept in front of the bus [and broke her
legs.]
i stutter for you.
here comes my:
fur lips.   storage bins.facilities.knuckle dragging. shouting lisp_
it's rough like
tweed-belly-hairs pushing up against soft earlobes resting on them

in the afternoon.

Hanna Montana is dead and we are happy now.

and
some call megod.          
my best fetishes are a housewife that wants you dead for wearing spaghetti straps
and a hairy chest.

she watches the news-
gets off to it.
as
her son and step-daughter **** in the basement.
they lean in place in nothing but those white cotton socks that get wet and sticky from the laundry detergent spilt across the rubber-
mat.

the *** stained push-up will get left down there.
the machine will tear it out of its wire armatures.

outside the sun is burning the lawn.

outside
the fat black flies are *******.
they drop, heavy- inside the windowsill
after 4 days of fury. the good fight
is lost.
their wings are sparkling


like gems.